Years ago I created my fictional alter-ego. After suffering from an extended writer's block, I was at the computer one night when all the chaos, suppression and hopes I had lived came together in a terrible urge within me--I pressed a key with my right index finger. The story turned out to be a self-referential one in which a young writer muses on the creation of her alter-ego: parallel lives on different planes of existence, shared emotions in solitary zones. In the story he's identified by the first letter of his name. Just for myself, I named him after a musician I liked.
Over the years a number of friends have picked that story as their favorite among my works. The story has its merit: it's subtle and visceral, and it has heart and form. I dread rereading it, but I like it for what it stands for in my writing life. It's one of those rare moments when the deeper truths of your life come to you in great clarity, and you birth that nugget of gold you've been trying to reach in yourself. Naturally I have a soft spot for my protagonist. I revisit him in my mind now and then: Has he changed? Is he well or has he lost himself?
There've been traces of him in my other male protagonists since, but I never wanted to reinvent him in full form in another story. I wanted to preserve his integrity in that fictional world, or there simply wasn't an opening in my life for me to touch him again.
That is, until recently when he turned into a real person. This person is an artist of some sort and I've always known him. I see him the way some people see me: openly vulnerable, genuine and gifted, a seeker in life. It was no surprise when my friend A. said, 'You like him because he's your alter-ego.' As the story goes, I took a second look at my friend's portfolio and saw that he has an alternative name as an artist, the same as my protagonist's. We never touched in the past, not until a while ago; it's the first time I looked at him or us.
As I re-create my protagonist on the page, I see endless intrigues and challenges. I'm out of practice in crafting a story and my language; my connection with my alter-ego in life was too brief, punctuated with pauses and limits. It's the seed for a revelation I must seek elsewhere and it has yet to gain substance. All day I work my way through the scenes and the characters: What do they stand for, what do they mean to one another and to me? How do I possess them when my life draws blanks and I'm dazed from an unquenchable thirst?
Fiction gives no answer and it's my only answer. I long to touch my alter-ego in life again one day and my bet is it wouldn't happen. The questions will haunt me until I find him in other connections, though such recognition of the souls rarely comes round. I must wait.
Over the years a number of friends have picked that story as their favorite among my works. The story has its merit: it's subtle and visceral, and it has heart and form. I dread rereading it, but I like it for what it stands for in my writing life. It's one of those rare moments when the deeper truths of your life come to you in great clarity, and you birth that nugget of gold you've been trying to reach in yourself. Naturally I have a soft spot for my protagonist. I revisit him in my mind now and then: Has he changed? Is he well or has he lost himself?
There've been traces of him in my other male protagonists since, but I never wanted to reinvent him in full form in another story. I wanted to preserve his integrity in that fictional world, or there simply wasn't an opening in my life for me to touch him again.
That is, until recently when he turned into a real person. This person is an artist of some sort and I've always known him. I see him the way some people see me: openly vulnerable, genuine and gifted, a seeker in life. It was no surprise when my friend A. said, 'You like him because he's your alter-ego.' As the story goes, I took a second look at my friend's portfolio and saw that he has an alternative name as an artist, the same as my protagonist's. We never touched in the past, not until a while ago; it's the first time I looked at him or us.
As I re-create my protagonist on the page, I see endless intrigues and challenges. I'm out of practice in crafting a story and my language; my connection with my alter-ego in life was too brief, punctuated with pauses and limits. It's the seed for a revelation I must seek elsewhere and it has yet to gain substance. All day I work my way through the scenes and the characters: What do they stand for, what do they mean to one another and to me? How do I possess them when my life draws blanks and I'm dazed from an unquenchable thirst?
Fiction gives no answer and it's my only answer. I long to touch my alter-ego in life again one day and my bet is it wouldn't happen. The questions will haunt me until I find him in other connections, though such recognition of the souls rarely comes round. I must wait.
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